Though your official rank is but a western post,
You, sir, are not just a disciple of Confucius and Yan Hui.
Your painting skill, they say, rivals that of Cao Ba;
Your poetic power, you claim, pursues Yu Xin's legacy.
Before guests, you wield the butcher's blade with ease;
In high spirits, you laugh and untie the maiden's jade ring.
Before the bare-chested painter, the brush has yet to fall,
Even with difficult rhymes, your thoughts never run dry.
Stroking your beard, you sweep out shadows of mountains and rivers;
Drunk, you sometimes set free the breeze and moon at leisure.
I too have dabbled in ink and brush all my life,
And have earned some mention among gentlemen.
Turning south, I often look up with admiration,
Willing to yield to you, though my hair is turning gray.
In Jingkou's taverns, I listen to songs performed;
In Guangling's commander's feast, I accompany your writing.
My plaintive chants are but the night insects' chirping;
Your supreme verses make me envy the autumn hawk's prowess.
In vain, high fame is monopolized by Gu and Lu;
I barely recognize exquisite thoughts surpassing Zhuangzi and Qu Yuan.
The immortal of Golden Hill governs both civil and martial arts;
Day after day, at feasts with sweet wine, he summons us.
The Silver Terrace emits dazzling golden gleams;
Embroidered curtains keep warmth, fragrant with orchid oil.
Eagerly I go to seek alliance with woodcutters and herdsmen,
Borrowing their anti-custom ways, shamed before mountain spirits.
Elegance scatters like clouds, leaving sighs of sorrow;
Before my eyes, barefooted, I remain a woodcutter's lad.
The prefect suddenly rides westward on a flying swan,
Saying he'll visit Sword Gate to copy old inscriptions.
Beyond ten thousand mountains lies Nüwa's blue clay,
Striving to pierce the clouds and sun, cold and towering.
Past joys, like broken strings, may yet be restrung;
A single letter to convey my thoughts remains beyond reach.
Before, I gazed and gazed, but you did not come;
My talkative tongue grew thorns, my chest filled with dust.
Knocking at the door, a brilliant smile you bring,
Washing away my ailing sorrows, fresh and clear.
Your new poems, supremely marvelous, you do not withhold;
My laughing mouth suddenly opens again because of you.
To vie for the lead like a steed—truly I am old;
Yet feasting at the butcher's shop is also a delight.
So long as our rock-solid friendship is not forsaken,
All other troubles I consign to a single laugh.
When will you bring that fine eastern silk,
And ask me to paint the landscapes of Wu and bring them back?